


Late Night Realization

by Beepun



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Jon is bad at feelings, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Season 2, Tim Stoker (mentioned) - Freeform, but hes feeling them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:34:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24385159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beepun/pseuds/Beepun
Summary: Martin Blackwood had left behind four books, three very full notebooks of handwritten poetry, two soft jackets, and one incriminating letter to his mother.In which season 2 Jon realizes suspecting your coworker of murder would be easier if he wasn't such a good person.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 8
Kudos: 118





	Late Night Realization

Martin Blackwood had left behind four books, three very full notebooks of handwritten poetry, two soft jackets, and one incriminating letter to his mother. 

The letter was a short banal thing, with only one line of importance. It read, “When  _ the others finding out I lied” _ , and it had felt like triumph and dread. Jon wants to read that line over and over again, sear every stroke of the pen into his mind until there is no denying that Martin is a filthy liar.

Instead he finds himself drawn to the books of poetry filled with Martin’s scribbled words. It’s infuriating in a way he cannot understand. The words make his skin itch, make his face warm, and make him feel horribly watched. It’s as if the thing in the Insitute  _ knows _ but rather than fear, he just feels embarrassed. 

“...The other’s finding out I lied.” He says to himself in his silent office. The Insitute is empty, there’s a cold cup of tea on his desk no doubt in the process of leaving another round stain on the old wood. 

What sort of lies does Martin Blackwood tell? Jon rests his chin in his hand as he stares across the room. He taps the pencil in his other hand against the desk, creating a nonsense rhythm as he tries to focus. 

Martin knows how his coworkers like their tea. He is a tall man with soft hair and a softer voice, as though he lives his life trying to be as unseen as possible. Or unthreatening as possible. A cover the, for his true behavior?  _ No _ , Jon can’t help but scowl at the thought that mild-mannered Martin could hold up a ruse for so long.

Martin once brought in a stray dog. He lied about it...or at least tried to. It was a valiant effort but his nervous eyes and stammered words and clammy face made him an easy read. At least Jon had thought it was easy, but had it been an act? 

No. When he’d thrown out the dog, Martin had excused himself to the break room with a tight voice and shaky hands. Jon didn’t see him until later, eyes damp and cheeks considerably red. Tim had been the hero of that story, Jon recalls with a hum. He’d gotten the dog and had asked around the Insitute for anyone who could take it in. Apparently, Whitney the Whippet was doing well, having found a home with Roger from artifact storage and a small but considerable following on Instagram. Jon still remembers how Martin had beamed,  _ like the bloody sun _ , when Tim informed him of the dog’s fate. Martin had followed both the dog and Roger instantly, and it had made something in Jon twist like a vice. 

He remembers, that later that week, Tim and Martin appearing in a photo on the account with the dog between them and the caption  _ The heroes who brought me home _ written underneath. Martin had been tagged, but being as he had no account of his own and only knew of the said photo because Tim was showing off, he couldn’t very well get a good look at his account.

“What does he even need an Instagram for anyways?” He frowns, taking a large sip from his admittingly now disgusting tea. 

That’s beside the point, he tells himself. Martin was bad at lying. He was a bleeding heart with as much backbone as tea without a container. But clearly he’d gotten away with something if he had felt the need to come clean to his mother. 

Was it something personal? Was it theft, was it disgrace, was it murder? 

Jon picks one of the notebooks, flips through the pages. His eyes catch on the line  _ “The streets are hard in London.”  _ And what does Martin Blackwood know of hardships? What does he know about long hours and longer nights? What does a man with soft-looking hands and a gentle smile know about pain? About longing? About the drive to be more than what he already is? Jon feels something ache in his chest and warmth on his cheeks and he looks around as though caught with his hand in a metaphorical cookie jar. What does Martin know? Is he a better man for it?

“Streets, by Martin K...What’s the K stand for? Dammnit.” He sighs, bringing a hand to scrub over his face as he starts again. Jon knows so little. “Streets, by Martin K Blackwood. 

_ The streets are hard in London.  _

_ Paved in old secrets, the hot smell after the rains. _

_ The threads of people walking, living, lo-loving…” _

The last word comes out a breath as the room feels smaller, warmer, and the sense that he is being watched grows. 

“W-Well really, if he didn’t want this read by just anyone, he shouldn’t h-have left it there, alright?” He says to no one, he says to himself. There’s no one to catch him snooping. And he’s not sure why this is harder than reading the letter.  _ If they find out I’ve been lying _ .  _ The streets are hard in London. _

Martin the poet, the bleeding heart who raises his voice for spiders and tries to tell lies for dogs and smiles when Tim-when people do kind things for him. There is something dark in the softness that makes up Martin K Blackwood, as there is something dark that makes up everyone in the archives. Jon cannot trust even this… The man with enough heart to stay soft and warm in the face of terror. With enough bravery to put words into poems. 

He closes the book, takes a moment to collect himself as he stares at the door, hoping that no one is out there to see him now. Jonathan Sims, overwhelmed by the warm lines on paper. 

Whatever is going on in the archives - and even though he cannot bring himself to trust - he really, really hopes Martin isn’t a part of it. 

**Author's Note:**

> back at it again w a one shot before yeeting myself off to rewrite the same chapter seven times over 
> 
> The poem is from MAG 79! Poetry is hard and Martin tries and that makes him very brave to my dear little heart.


End file.
